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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23814388">proven on the mat</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/chameleonchanging/pseuds/chameleonchanging'>chameleonchanging</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 15:21:33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>680</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23814388</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/chameleonchanging/pseuds/chameleonchanging</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The new General is the source of all Wolffe's stress. The new General doesn't know when to stay out of Wolffe's way. Guess they'll just have to work out their differences with a good old-fashioned fistfight.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Plo Koon &amp; CC-3636 | Wolffe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>101</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>proven on the mat</h2></a>
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<p></p><div class="answer post_info"><p>This is how they start: <b></b></p><p>Wolffe does not believe for an instant that this twig of a man, mask-dependent, smooth-voiced, freshly rescued out of a kill box is capable of leading his 104th Battalion. He does not believe he is long for this world, if he must obey the whims of an idiot. He does the only thing he can: he storms into the gym, wraps up his knuckles, and goes to town on the heavy bag. </p><p>The officers of the 104th have been his for years; they know when he is in a mood and clear out the gallery accordingly. Before he’s done throwing his first round of punches, the entire floor is empty, and a guard has been posted at each entrance to keep newcomers out. The gym throws echos of his blows back at him, and he loses himself for a time in the steady rhythm of blows against an inanimate object. It’s not enough to cool his temper, but he’s just managed to take the edge off when the door slides open and the object of his ire steps in. </p><p>Well, that was all for nothing. His hands curl into fists. He makes himself suck in a cooling breath under the guise of recovering and faces the Jedi.</p><p>“General Koon,” he says, saluting. </p><p>“At ease,” says the General. “I apologize. I wasn’t aware this space was reserved.”</p><p>“It’s fine, sir,” says Wolffe. “I can leave if you -”</p><p>“No need to trouble yourself on my account,” says the General. “Though I suppose - I know little about your abilities, and you about mine. Perhaps if you were willing we might remedy that?”</p><p>“Sir, I don’t want to hurt you,” Wolffe says flatly. He’s positive he will if they do this, but the General seems unconcerned. They hash out the rules - pinned to a five-count or to concession, no Force bullshit, and no attempted murder - and then square off on the mats. Wolffe watches him take a stance exactly like a fencer, shoulders in line, hands folded across his middle. He almost laughs. “Whenever you’re ready, sir,” he says. </p><p>The next thing he knows, he’s crashing to the floor and landing on his shoulder, a victim to Plo Koon’s obnoxiously chipper stroll forwards with leg sweep. He stares up at the General, slightly cross-eyed before he realizes what’s happened, and then he scowls, rolls to his feet, and lets loose with a flurry of blows. Whatever General Koon is practicing is very heavy on soft blocks and redirects, keeping him very close in Wolffe’s space. The proximity gives Wolffe a good look at the mask, which has no obvious attachment point. His training demands he focus on the obvious weakness; his nerve demands he leave it well enough alone so he doesn’t accidentally kill the man. And the nails, now that he’s up close and personal with them whooshing past his nose, are more like claws, the longest reinforced with a metal cover. He has to admit the General has some amount of skill, since he hasn’t gouged out Wolffe’s eye or even drawn blood. </p><p>He throws a punch, lets himself be redirected, flows into a kick to the side that the General fails to catch. He tires without his magic; Wolffe presses his advantage. A short exchange of blows, and then he sees his chance and throws a roundhouse kick to the head that the General dodges into by mistake. He drops like a rock and Wolffe swears, scrambling to his side. </p><p>Shit. He has no idea how to med-eval a Kel Dor. What if he’s broken his neck? But the General rolls himself over onto his back, quivering with laughter, and places his open hands by his head. </p><p>“I concede to your greater skill, Commander,” he says. “Well fought.”</p><p>“Fuck, sir,” Wolffe breathes. “Sorry, sir, but fuck.” He sits back on his heels, the tension in his chest unraveling. He ignores the new tension beginning to form in his gut; he’s got his work cut out for him, but maybe not so much work as he thought.</p></div></div></div></div>
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